


The One Where Jack's A Goalie

by onawingandaswear



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Goalie AU, Jack changes his life goals and still ends up at Samwell, Jack is Bitty's kinda mentor, Johnson is Jack's kinda mentor, M/M, References to overdose, healthy coping methods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-04-29 09:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14469411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: Jack Zimmermann comes out of rehab with a new lease on life and a desperate need to reconnect with the ice. Unwilling to place himself back in the spotlight, he decides to start his 'career' over and retrain as a goaltender.  With less judgment from his peers and little chance of going pro, Jack has a chance to be himself at Samwell, possibly for the first time in his entire life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from Tumblr.

“You’re a goalie stuck in a forward’s body, Jack. I hope you never lose that spark.”

Jack remembers being fourteen and horribly offended. All he’d done was get a little excited about how the Royal Canadian Mounted Police transitioned into their modern incarnation. That’s it. He knows deep down his father meant it as a compliment but Jack knows goalies are quirky. Weird. They aren’t playmakers, they can’t be captains, they’re integral, necessary, but they aren’t stars. Jack’s supposed to be a star.

Jack says as much and his father stares him down with one brow arched playfully. 

“You’re laying on stereotypes pretty thick, bud. Are you telling me Patrick Roy wasn’t a playmaker? Sawchuck? Hell, I should call Martin and have him come down here himself. Goalies are the glue that keeps a team together, the last line of defense and the most entertaining people you’ll ever meet. Or the biggest bastards. Either way, you remind me of some of the best boys I’ve ever known.”

Bad Bob has made his point but Jack holds fast on his opinion for a long time. Through the Q, even when he’s exhausted and strung out and hating everything around him. He resents goalies on principle: they’re his natural enemy, keeping him from playing his best game. Eventually, he takes that dislike all the way to rehab.

“The professional pipeline discourages individuality in players that are marked for great things,” his therapist prompts. “You aren’t allowed to be an individual. We’ve discussed this before but I don’t think you’ve really examined why you project these judgments. Is it that goalies are ‘weird’, or is it that you resent the fact they aren’t judged as harshly as you were?”

At a Junior World Cup game, an announcer called Jack ‘ _a hockey-playing robot_ ’ and the nickname stuck. It wasn’t long before scouts, news article, and people on the street he didn’t even know started calling him a ‘robot’ like it was a compliment.  

Goalies are weird. Quirky. Goalies can love history and old movies. Goalies can sing to Toto during timeouts. Goalies can be anxious. Goalies can have tantrums and yell and they don’t have to be perfect all the time. Goalies aren’t robots, they’re people.

Jack doesn’t cry during that particular session but it’s a near thing.

He comes home from therapy and starts researching how common it is to switch positions and still be a decent player. There isn’t much to work with but Jack has plenty of time and energy to spare. He isn’t planning on going pro, he just wants to play. He wants to have fun.

So, one night Bob makes dinner and Jack downs half a steak before saying, “I think I want to be a goalie.”

Bob Zimmermann cuts an impressive figure, even sporting his ‘ _Check the Cook_ ’ apron. He’s a little older, little grayer, more than a few of the lines around his eyes are Jack’s fault, but for all of Jack’s internalized fears of failure, perpetuated largely by growing up in the shadow of a legend, the man has always been a dedicated father. Jack’s overdose only proved it.

“You want to be a goalie?” Bob asks from across the kitchen, waving his spatula to mime what Jack thinks is supposed to be a mitt. “ _Goalie_ -goalie?”

“I think I’d like to play hockey again. Reset and start over. I can do that as a goalie. No pressure to be…well, me.”

His father contemplates him for a moment before grabbing an avocado from the bowl near the coffee machine and chucking it at Jack’s head; he barely dodges it when his mother yells,  _“Jesus, Bob!”_

“I’m not a goalie yet,” Jack shouts, turning around to look at the dented avocado resting on the floor.

“Clearly,” Bob sighs and, to his credit, apologizes for throwing the fruit before asking, “You still want to learn to be a goalie?”

“If I say yes will you throw an orange at me?”

Jack fights the urge to retreat to his room when his father pulls out the chair beside him and sets a notepad down beside Jack’s half-finished plate,  _‘To Do’_  scrawled messily at the top, and directly below that, _‘new goalie pads’_

“No, I was thinking about shooting some pucks at you, which might actually be worse. Let’s start with this.”

Like most things, it takes time. Jack starts developing a different set of muscles, does the same training exercises his pint-sized pee-wee goalies practice religiously. For months the Zimmermann’s entertain a steady stream of hockey legends bribed with beer and good company to help Jack practice his puck-stopping skills.

Never let it be said that Jack Zimmermann half asses anything.

He goes to therapy. Keeps a journal. Does breathing exercises and forces himself to be honest about the things he enjoys. When he wants to make a joke, he jokes. He chirps. With no chance of going pro, there’s no pressure to hide. Well, less pressure. He doesn’t want to accidentally out Kent, but if a cute boy smiles at him, he’s smiling right back.

Jack’s goalie pads might as well be a suit of armor. His pee-wee kids are in awe. His beer-league teammates are terrified. Eventually, his skill sets overlap and he’s not just a big fish in a small pond, he’s a shark; going crazy sitting around all day doing nothing but read and train. He needs something bigger, a challenge.

(His mother says he needs a boyfriend, but that’s debatable.)

When Jack decides he wants to go to school, Alicia’s alma mater of Samwell is a foregone conclusion. However, like most things regarding Jack, his reputation precedes him. When he goes to meet with the Dean regarding his slightly unorthodox admission, they find the head coach of the men’s hockey team has been invited to meet them as well.

“Jack’s not here to play hockey,” Bob says immediately, in lieu of a proper greeting, already tense. “He’s here to be a student.”

“Maybe not ‘ _normal_ ’,” Jack amends, leaning against his mother’s side. She giggles behind her hand but composes herself quickly.

Hall, the newly appointed Men’s Hockey coach launches into his proposal emphatically, talking about the school’s repeated playoff berths and building the entire program around Jack. Bob is red-faced and looks like he’s about to flip a desk but Jack reaches over to rest a hand on his father’s arm to steady him.

“It’s okay. I think I’d like to do it,” Jack’s parents both turn to him in surprise. “Under one condition.”

“Anything you need,” Hall says quickly, unable to hide his excitement.

“I want to be brought in as a goalie.”

Hall’s smile falters.

“What?”

“I’m not a forward, anymore. I can understand if you aren’t looking for a —”

“No! No, um, we only have one goalie right now, I’m sure we can bring you in under Johnson until we see how you perform.”

A tentative verbal agreement is struck, hands are shaken, and Jack’s brimming with excitement he knows he can’t share just yet.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” His mother asks when they clear reception, wary of listening ears. “This wasn’t the plan, you don’t have to play if you don’t absolutely want to.”

Jack almost doesn’t answer, distracted by a flier tacked to a student notice board announcing an end of semester bonfire. He doesn’t miss the pride flag stamped in the corner and neither do his parents.

“One in four, maybe more,” Alicia teases softly, not for the first time since they’ve arrived.

“I know,” Jack glosses. “I still love hockey, if I’m terrible at it, no harm no foul.”

His father is less certain, a frown tugging at his lips as he guides them both toward the door.

“This is a Division 1 school, Jack. A degree is one thing, being a full-time college athlete is another. You’ll have eyes on you again.” Bob nods to the flier. “I just want to be sure you aren’t overextending yourself before you’ve even started.”

There are kids playing ultimate frisbee on the quad; beyond them, Jack can see a group of runners disappearing behind the science building. The sun is shining, the trees are in full bloom, and Jack desperately wants to be a part of something normal.

“If it’s too much, I’ll quit,” Jack promises, keeping stride with his parents as they head to the rental car. “Can’t hurt to try.”

 

* * *

 

_(Two Years Later)_

* * *

 

 

Johnson slaps Jack’s ass and says, “Look out, your timeline’s about to jack-knife.”

“You say that every week,” Jack settles into the crease and wiggles his hips, ready for the new frogs to show their stuff. “Still don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, bud.”

There’s a hell of a freshman class this year, a lot of potentials, a lot of risk, and the A on Jack’s sweater means he gets a chance to help mold the team into something great. He’s excited. He’s nervous.

“ _Don’t need to be the best,_ ”Jack whispers to himself, watching Holster razz a small winger. “ _Only good and kind._ ”

The first issue of the season presents almost immediately. The short frog can’t take a check and goes down so hard it’s painful to watch. Jack doesn’t leave the net, lets Johnson investigate since he’s closer, but he watches like a hawk, trying to figure out what the issue is without engaging.

Hall said the kid used to be a figure skater, so clearly he isn’t used to contact, but he’s made it this far so he has promise. Everyone has promise and Jack feels a weird camaraderie: change is hard, he should know. 

Eventually, they slide the kid to Jack’s side of the rink and Jack finds himself staring down a set of bright brown eyes reddened by shame. 

“Bittle. C’mere.”

“Jack, right?” His accent catches Jack off guard in the best way. 

“So I’m told. Stand still,” Jack kicks off a little and slides into Bittle’s space at a glacial pace, slow enough Bittle has time to back up a few inches.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking you. You know ‘bunny slopes’, eh?” Jack realizes he needs to explain himself. He’s thinking about kids learning to ski on beginner courses and hooks his stick around Bittle’s leg to drag him forward so he bumps against Jack’s pads. “Bunny checks.  _Lapin_  check.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Bittle pushes back and frowns, hurt. “I know it’s stupid —”

“No,  _non_ ,” Jack pushes his mask up and turns to set his stick up on the net. “Checking is hard, you need to start small.”

“Wait,” Bittle’s expression changes from wounded to confused. “You’re actually trying to help?”

From across the rink, Jack can see Murray watching them both with the same cautious optimism he showed after they awarded Jack the A. 

“Hall said you used to figure skate,” Jack says, nudging Bittle’s skate with his stick. “It’s hard adjusting to a different playing style, don’t let it get you down.”

“I played hockey in high school,” Bittle defends lamely, letting Jack maneuver him toward the bench.

“So did I,” Jack jokes, though Bittle doesn’t seem to find the same humor.

_“Zimmermann! Give us back the frog!”_

“Take it easy,” Jack orders, patting Bittle’s helmet awkwardly. “Keep your head up.”

Bittle offers a wary  _‘thanks’_  and heads back to the frog huddle while Shitty whips around to steal Jack’s water bottle.

“Think you spooked him trying to be all maternal. Trying to make that frog your new pet project? Gonna fix him up nice and pretty for the ball? Rescue him from a tower?”

“Maybe. Stop mixing metaphors. No one that fast should seize up so quick.”  

“Well someone needs to do something or he’s going to get bust down real fucking fast —” Shitty stops and gives Jack a hairy eye. “You got the look, brah. Crazy eyes. It’s too early in the season for that thousand-yard-stare.”

Jack smacks Shitty with his stick, mind already a million miles away. He needs to make a few calls, confer with his father, but he thinks he can sort Bittle out in a few weeks with some dedicated attention. He tells Hall and Murray as much.

“You’ve got more experience than anyone else on this team, if you think you can help, by all means,” Murray tells him, giving the program’s blessing.

It takes Jack half a day to plan out a schedule, a timeline of exercises before he realizes he hasn’t actually spoken to Bittle about the extra practices. Or anything at all beyond their initial interaction.

“Bro, you went crazy internal,” Ransom points out at dinner that evening. “Your psychology notes are a mess, looked like you were comparing stats.”

“I was…busy,” Jack defends, casually sliding a hand over his ‘notes’.

“Jackabelle, here,” Shitty slaps his tray down beside Jack and shakes him with a one-armed hug. “Is going to fix whatever’s fucking with Bittle. Operation: S.O.B.: Save-Our-Bittle.”

“ _Ha_ ,” Jack scribbles a reminder to talk to Bittle in the morning. “Like Arrested Development.”

That night, Jack lies awake listening to the boys roughhouse upstairs, trying to figure out how he’ll broach the subject of extra training. 

He can fix this.

He can help Bittle.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning at team breakfast, Bittle settles in across from Jack, a little to the left of Jack’s empty coffee cup. His plate is loaded with breakfast potatoes, Texas toast, and a few scant pieces of turkey bacon. It’s unbalanced for a preseason meal, but nothing that can’t be remedied so Jack rolls two hard boiled eggs from his plate onto Bittle’s; the frog will need the energy if they’re going to train together.

“Bittle.”

The kid blinks up, surprised.

“You need to eat more protein.”


	2. Chapter 2

“His nickname is ‘ _Bitty_ ’,” Holster explains excitedly. “We decided last night.”

“ _Bitty_?” Jack takes a break from re-taping his favorite stick (the one he doesn’t ever actually use, see ‘ _favorite_ ’) and tries not to glare at Holster because he knows exactly what’s coming. “May I ask  _why_?”

“It’s because he’s —“

“— If you say it’s because he’s ‘ _itty-bitty_ ’, I will personally come over there and kick your ass,” Jack interrupts, keeping an eye on the door. Bittle’s been using the kitchen frequently enough he practically lives in the Haus at this point.

“ _Bittle_ ,” Holster coughs after Ransom comes thundering down the stairs to elbow him in the stomach. “Because his last name is Bittle.”

“He’s got a mental block about his size,” Jack chides, turning back to his task. “Don’t make it worse for a joke.”

“Thought you were supposed to be helping with that,” Shitty yells from the kitchen. “You said he was getting better.”

“He is but I’m not the only guy on this team that should be watching out for him,” Jack defends before someone starts ‘coo’-ing like a pigeon and the noise spreads until the whole house is clucking and making bird noises. The ‘ _mother-hen_ ’ title hasn’t gone away as quickly as Jack would have liked.

“Just remember if he loses his scholarship there won’t be any pie!” Jack yells over the noise, gathering his gear to retreat to his room. “Can you live with that?”

The answer is more clucking.

 

* * *

 

Jack’s plan for early morning pre-practice sessions is derailed slightly; Hall doesn’t want to overextend him too early in the season; Johnson’s still rocking two PT sessions a week so Jack isn’t ‘just’ a backup, not anymore.

This doesn’t stop the protein plan, the only aspect of his unexecuted training regimen he can actually encourage.

Under normal circumstances, the average person can set a habit by repeating an action sixty times. In hockey circles, a habit might as well be a superstition; and no one has superstitions like a goalie. Jack has never considered himself ‘average’ and he’s proud to say he can set a habit in less than half that time.

The boys maneuver the seating arrangement at the breakfast table to accommodate Jack’s newest quirk without a word of discussion. It’s so subtle and unquestioned Jack catches Bittle asking Shitty if he’d made someone mad.

He needs to eat with Bittle. Needs to add something to his breakfast. If they can’t physically train yet, they can work on nutrition. The first morning it was hard-boiled eggs. The next day: a protein bar. The day after that? A slice of bread slathered with almond butter.

“I can feed myself,” Bittle says defensively after Jack tries to hand him a plate of bacon. “I know you think I’m not trying hard enough, but you can stop teasing me, thank you.”

The whole table goes silent, expecting something Jack can’t interpret. Perhaps in another life, he’d be offended on his own behalf but that’s not something he feels like entertaining today. Though there is now a curl of embarrassment in his chest threatening to strangle his heart.

“Oh, uh, no, I just,” Jack sets the dish down and snags a crispy piece for himself, trying to play off how unsettled he’s immediately become. “I know you’re capable of feeding yourself, I didn’t mean —”

“Jackie-boy’s just trying to make you feel welcome,” Shitty interrupts with careful levity, keeping an eye on Jack as he drops an arm around Bittle’s shoulders. “Just a good ol’ goalie superstition. Means he likes you.”

Jack finishes the bacon and slides his left hand under his thigh, already feeling the ghost of a tremor. He hasn’t had this happen in a while, almost six months, and he’s not about to have a panic attack over a misunderstanding.

_You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, he’s okay, you’re okay —_

“Yo, Zimms, we have that meeting in five,” a weighty hand settles on Jack’s shoulder and he nearly jumps when he blinks up and finds Johnson staring down at him. “You ready? Let’s go.”

He forces a nod and shoves out from the seat, quickly enough the noise echoes through the hall. Bittle says something Jack doesn’t quite catch through the blood pounding in his ears but he doesn’t have time to think beyond the instinct to follow Johnson.

“You okay?” Johnson pulls a water from his bag and hands it over. “Talk it out. C’mon.”

“I know what triggered it,” Jack breathes, tucking himself against the brick wall, tapping a count on his fingertips. “Just didn’t realize it was a trigger.”

“What? The Frog getting all huffy? You talk about Bittle to everyone but Bittle. Some tension had to develop but you know this is about you, not him, right?”

“Well, no shit it’s me,” Jack downs half the bottle, gasps because he needs oxygen, too, and hands it back. “I think…Embarrassed? I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to make people feel inferior. I don’t want to make people feel like I felt. Like I wasn’t good enough. I still feel like I’m not good enough.” Jack slides down the wall and sits on the dirt, processing. “Fuck. I need to call my therapist.”

“Nice job working it through. You’re getting better at that.”

“You think I scared him? Bittle?” Jack asks, glossing the compliment and waiting for his heartbeat to regulate. “The boys acted like he’d dropped a slur.”

“I think you interpreted the situation how you wanted to interpret it. He’s probably just confused.”

Jack sucks in another breath, easing himself into a forced state of calm. “Confused,” he echoes, “makes sense. Should I apologize?”

Johnson gives him a look that can only be interpreted as ‘no’.

“Wait it out. Bittle’s got his own perception of what you’re trying to do. Let him piece it all together before you start re-building bridges you haven’t actually burned. Sound good?”

“No,” Jack admits, shaking a hand through his hair. “But I’m compromised so what the hell do I know, right?”

A polite cough brings their attention to Bittle, standing awkwardly near the trash can, Jack’s messenger bag over his shoulder.

“Um, you left your bag, I thought I’d —”

“You know what, I’m late for something unimportant,” Johnson offers a hand and Jack allows himself to be pulled to his feet while Johnson says his goodbyes. “Jack,” Johnson says, then nods to Bittle. “Potential love interest.”

“Potential what?” Bittle’s awkward embarrassment slides to blatant confusion and in that sense, he and Jack are on an even keel.

“He does that…if you ignore him he’ll stop.”

“Oh, well, um, sorry,” Bittle recovers, cautiously handing Jack his bag. “I was coming out here to apologize, too. Um, Shitty explained some things about…I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. You were trying to be nice. I guess.”

“He told you I’ve got anxiety and I’m quirky, right?” Jack finishes, watching the girls playing ultimate frisbee over Bittle’s shoulder. “I thought you’d appreciate food-based acts of service, all the baking you do. Also, I accept your apology.”

If Jack keeps chirping he’ll be okay. Nothing defuses his anxiety in the moment like vague insults; though to be fair that strategy tends to backfire pretty spectacularly when he has time to reflect on what he’s said.

“Yeah, well,” Bittle laughs and tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m used to feeding people being my thing. It’s the Southerner in me.”

“Well, in that case, being a hockey player with loose personal boundaries is the French Canadian in me. I can trade you baked goods for aggressive training tips if you’re agreeable.”

“I think I may be,” Bittle smiles, tension draining from his posture. “You don’t have to stop. The protein thing. If it’s a ritual, that is. Lord knows it doesn’t bother me a bit if it’s coming from a place of good intention.”

Jack is about five seconds from launching into an explanation of his entire training plan when Bittle’s phone chirps and he’s apologizing because he needs to go to class.

“I’m sorry again!” Bittle calls, turning tail so quickly the cowlick on the back of his head is flat for a half-second. “See you at practice!”

 

* * *

 

When Jack gets to his Econ class, twenty minutes early because why not, he finds a napkin-wrapped peanut butter cookie wedged precariously between his notebooks. He sniffs it, takes a bite, and his suspicions are confirmed.

Homemade.

_Bittle._


	3. Chapter 3

Winter Screw finds Jack in his room with a guy from the Soccer team who shares a study period with Johnson and whose thighs are nearly as thick as Jack’s own.

“You’re seriously wound up,” O’Reilly grunts, getting a hand on Jack’s ass. “Need a massage?”

“No, I need to get laid,” Jack groans, pulling off his shirt. “Hoping you can help with that — ?”

Someone knocks on his door and Jack ignores it, losing himself in a kiss before throwing a leg over O’Reilly’s hip.

Another hesitant knock, then the door cracks open enough that the light blinds them both.

“ _Ferme la porte_!” Jack yells, tugging the blanket up to cover them up, and the door slams shut quickly.

“Sorry,” Jack huffs and drops his head against O’Reilly’s chest. “Where were we?”

* * *

The next morning finds Jack sore and hungry, cleaning up the kitchen so he can even attempt to make himself breakfast. What he doesn’t expect is for Bittle to wander in sheepishly wearing the same clothes from the night before.

“Walk of shame?” Jack chirps.

“What? No, I, um, I crashed in Shitty’s room?” Bittle answers noticing Jack collecting trash and moving to help. “I’m sorry about last night,” Bittle apologizes, holding a trash bag open for Jack to dump his handful of crushed cans. “I thought you were alone.”

Oh. Damn.

“Didn’t realize that was you,” Jack catches himself before he scratches his neck, a tic he hasn’t quite shaken from the Q. “Sorry if you got an eyeful. I should have locked it.”

They work in silence for a few minutes: Jack picking up bottles and cans, candy wrappers, while Bittle trails behind with the garbage bag. “We could use some music,” Jack comments, digging a paper plate out from beneath the couch. “If I wasn’t so sure it’d wake everyone up. You sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I did,” Bittle answers softly, like they’re discussing something sensitive, not just trying to be good roommates. “So, um, last night, that wasn’t a puck bunny.”

“Who? O’Reilly? No, he plays soccer,” Jack crumples the plate and turns to put it in the bag when he sees Bittle is looking at Jack’s feet, not his face.

Jack can practically feel the lightbulb go off above his head when Bittle asks, “Are you two, um, together?”

“Fuck no, just a hook-up,” Jack laughs, cautious of spooking Bittle. “I don’t mess with puck bunnies, not that they’re very interested in me anymore. Were you going to get lucky last night? Was that why you were looking for a room?”

“No!” Bittle shakes his head furiously, apparently uncertain of what he wants to say. “No, I was just…looking for somewhere quiet.”

“Oh. Euh, well, last night was a bit of an anomaly so don’t feel like you can’t hide in my room if you need to. Winter Screw can get pretty intense —”

“Are you gay?” Bittle asks, glossing Jack’s offer.

“I don’t really like labels,” Jack explains, sensing that this could be a significant moment for Bittle, though if that moment will be positive or negative remains to be seen. “I like people, if that helps. More of a case-by-case basis thing but you can call me whatever. Does that bother you?”

“No,” Bittle flushes, pausing like he’s contemplating his next words carefully. “I just…um…I think I might be gay, too?”

“Think?” Jack takes the bag from Bittle’s hands and fights the urge to laugh at the smile that spreads across the frog’s face.  

“I’ve never said it out loud. You’re the first person I’ve ever told,” Bittle breathes, wide-eyed and excited. “I’m gay.”

“Fuck yeah, bud. I’m sorry I don’t have confetti,” Jack shakes the bag. “Only trash. Either way, congrats. Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks? Maybe? Gosh, why was I so scared to say it before?”

“Oh, yeah I hear that. Way easier to communicate after you break the seal. Hey, there is one bylaw that does affect you, now,” Jack snags another bottle and tosses it in the bag. “Don’t fuck any lacrosse players. Not that there aren’t some good guys lost in that shit team but they tend to treat Haus hookups like war games and we always lose something.”

“War Games?”

Jack looks back at Bittle and finds the frog watching him with wide eyes.

“Yeah, you know, stealing mascots and stuff.”

“We have a  _mascot_?”

“Euh, we used to?” Jack answers but when Bittle goes pale Jack course corrects hard. “It wasn’t alive! It was a statue.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Look, just, this is a safe space, you know? I’ll still be your hardass captain, but you let me know if anyone gives you any shit, okay? I mean, it’s Samwell, you shouldn’t have any issues but –”

Jack’s rambling. He can feel he’s been talking too long and he forces himself to stop when he realizes Bitty is looking at him with far too much admiration.

“Thank you, Jack. That means a lot.”

“No problem, Bittle,” Jack realizes he’s lost his urge to cook anything and hooks a thumb toward the door. “You wanna grab something at Annie’s? I’m done cleaning up other people’s messes.”

Jack doesn’t read into the hopeful expression on Bittle’s face, even if he does end up buying the kid a ‘congratulations’ latte with rainbow sprinkles on top.

Jack’s a good captain. Alternate Captain.

Maybe.

* * *

 

Between 4am checking practices, team breakfasts, and Bittle using the Haus kitchen on a near daily basis, Jack’s life is becoming increasingly more tangled with his teammate’s.

“I’m giving Bitty my dibs,” Johnson tells him through a mouthful of toothpaste foam. “He deserves it.”

“It’s barely March, and he hasn’t done anything for you,” Jack points out, leaning against the door that separates their rooms, letting the wall support him.

“He’s done a lot for you, so I’m grateful,” Johnson emphasizes. “You were my frog and now he’s yours. Maybe you’ll surprise everyone. Pull a Ransom and Holster. Share a room.”

“Roomies with a blonde, gay teammate,” Jack scoffs, picking at a callous on his palm. “Because that worked out so well last time.”

“Look, I know you don’t see it but you’re totally off book, here,” Johnson rinses and spits, busting out the floss. “You can do whatever the hell you want. You don’t have to fuck him. You can just be friends.”

“Who said anything about fucking Bittle?”

“You took to that kid like a duck to water,” Johnson pulls the floss tight and gives Jack a look. “He is 110% your type and he adores you as much as you like him. You two are, like, a full year ahead of schedule.”

“Don’t do that crazy psychic crap, man,” Jack groans, grabbing his towel from the rack and heading back to his room. “I don’t need your weirdness on me tonight.”

“You’re a goalie!” Johnson shouts indignantly as Jack retreats. “You are weirdness!”

* * *

The end of the season brings the chance of a playoff berth and increasingly desperate seniors looking for one last taste of glory.

Jack just wants to play good hockey, which is difficult given how little ice time he’s been given since Johnson found his mojo and decided he was going to end his college career with a bang.

It’s the reason Jack has to watch from the bench as a Yale defenseman sends Bittle airborne off a low-hip check, and Jack’s entire year condenses down into one misplaced promise to a skittish frog.

He told Bittle he’d watch his back.

Jack doesn’t know what takes over when he leaves the bench to check on his frog, helmet and gloves abandoned as he slides to a stop beside Hall.

“I’m alright,” Bittle tries to assure them, even as he holds his head and lists slightly to the side. “I only blacked out for a second.”

Jack spins and launches himself at the first Yale player he can find.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s senior year starts with Bittle’s glow-up. He is not prepared.

Jack comes back from summer vacation and makes it a whole two minutes before nearly breaking an ankle on the front step of the Haus when he sees a man who can’t possibly be Eric Bittle rocking short-shorts and an undercut.

“Totally saw that,” Lardo razzes from the doorway, toasting his shame. “Bitty had a growth spurt. You need a few? I think Shits cried when he saw him.”

“No, I’m okay. Only bruised my ego,” Jack recovers, picking up the strap of the duffel he dropped while ogling a teammate. “He looks good.”

“Blossomed like a beautiful gay butterfly,” Lardo agrees sagely, sneaking a quick drag off a smoking joint in the ashtray on the railing. “We’re gonna be knee deep in thirsty bitches this season,” she rushes on the exhale, giving Jack a knowing look, “which reminds me, I’ve got dibs on Camilla this semester.”

Jack scopes out the yard and seeing that the coast is clear motions for the joint, taking a quick hit. It won’t be enough to get him blitzed, but it’ll take the edge off before he bumps into Bittle and says something stupid. Which he will. 

He doesn’t want to spiral out on day one because all his blood is in his dick.

“You and Shitty still…?” Jack fights a cough while Lardo grins.

“We aren’t exclusive. I can date and Shitty can continue his fruitless quest to get in your pants.”

Jack passes the joint back to Lardo and fights a laugh, remembering the drunken fumbling freshman year when Shitty has been determined to conquer  _‘Mount’ Zimmermann_. 

They’d never made it past second base, not for lack of trying on Shitty’s part.

“Shitty’s been in my pants, remember? My ass was too much for him. His poor stoner heart couldn’t take it. Now I’m just his muse.”

“ _Muse_ ,” Lardo grins and stamps out the roach, sliding past Jack to help Holster unload his Jeep. “ _Big Gay Panic_ , more likely.”

Jack shoots a wave to the boys and heads inside coming face to face with a wide-eyed version of Bittle that Jack’s mellowed mind immediately labels ‘ _twink_ ’. He resists the urge to say it out loud.

 It’s very difficult.

“Hey Jack! Did I just hear you,” Bitty starts, then hesitates. “Did you say you ‘slept’ with Shitty?”

“I ‘made out’ with Shitty,” Jack corrects, keeping his eyes staunchly on Bittle’s face and definitely not below the waist. “He just wanted to say he’d touched my ass. I was used.”

Bitty shuffles his feet – bare, Jack falters, looking down – and says softly, “Oh.”

There’s clearly no reason for the conversation to continue but Jack gets the feeling Bittle wants to talk about something. Or maybe Jack’s the one who wants to talk. Either way, the bag on his shoulder is getting heavy and Jack jerks his chin toward the stairs. “I’m going to dump this in my room if you want to keep talking.”

Bitty’s face is pink and his hair is short and Jack thinks this could be a bonding moment if he was a better man, but the warning bells in the back of his mind are ringing because Jack isn’t great at shutting down his crushes, limited and fierce as they are.

“That’s okay,” Bitty backtracks. “I have some cookies in the oven, I just wanted to say you, um, look good. Did you train this summer?”

Jack did, in fact, attend a camp where he lifted many heavy things and pretended like he was interested in signing with an AHL team all so he could get a new gear duffel. Right now all that matters is Jack ‘looks good’.

Bitty does not need to know the last part.

“Yeah, up in London, there was a —”

“You went to London?” Bitty asks incredulously, eyes so wide Jack can practically see himself in them. “That’s  _awesome_.”

“Ontario,” Jack corrects, somehow ashamed he’s ruining whatever image has manifested in Bittle’s mind. “London,  _Ontario_.”

“Oh,” Bittle laughs sheepishly, “well that makes sense, I guess.”

Silence settles between them before Bitty adds, “You know, I went to Athens over break?”

Athens? Something clicks in Jack’s hazy brain. 

Flirting. This is flirting.

He needs to shut this down because Johnson was right, Jack likes it. Likes Bittle. He’s always liked Bittle, and now Bittle is somehow more charming and attractive than he was before. He’s blossomed from a closeted freshman into pure, undiluted Zimmermann Kryptonite.

Jack should stop. ‘Pining Captain’ isn’t a good look. Or he could just –

“You drove all the way to Greece?”

The laugh Jack gets is absolutely worth it.

They go back and forth for a few minutes until the energy in the house changes enough to disrupt whatever ‘thing’ they’re working on developing.

Bittle trails Jack upstairs to his own room — which is an apocalyptic five feet from Jack’s own — and bids him goodbye like it isn’t eleven in the morning. Jack, frustrated in ways he can’t quite articulate, opens the door to his room and throws his bag onto the bed, where it misses by a hair and lands loudly on the floor.

Jack should unpack but he’s too far gone, imagining burying his face in Bittle’s hair, sliding his hands up under the hem of his shorts and —

Jack kicks off his shoes, unzips his pants, turns on the fan, and wraps a hand around his dick. He comes with Bittle’s name on his lips and Beyoncé crooning across the hall.

It’s a hell of a way to start his senior year.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s got it bad for Bittle, Bittle makes a move, Zimbits becomes a thing, and Kent Parson rears his head.

Bitty is perched on the edge of Jack’s bed, decidedly not doing his Econ reading, when he coughs politely and announces, “I’m worried about wasting my first kiss on some drunk frat boy.”

“A fair concern,” Jack kicks back from his desk, rolling his chair across the floor before a wheel gets stuck in a groove in the hardwood and he jerks to a stop. “But you know you don’t have to kiss anyone, right? Same goes for anyone looking for a hand job.”

“Someone wants a handjob, they better be ready to give you one first,” Jack wags a finger at Bittle. “Same for blow jobs. Haus rules.”

“I know!” Bittle goes red. “I know that.”

“So, you want your first kiss to be special. What constitutes special?”

“Just something I’d want to remember. I can look back and go, ‘I made the right decision at that moment’.”

“My first kiss was on a dare,” Jack counters. “I am not the man I am today because of that.”

Bittle laughs but doesn’t continue the conversation, like he’s missed the return swing and can’t figure out how to get back in the rhythm of their interaction. Jack is smart enough to know Bittle needs a minute to gather himself so he turns his attention back to the book in his hands.

Bitty’s been quiet for some time when Jack finishes his chapter and looks up from his textbook to see him red-faced and staring at the floor.

“Hey, bud, you okay?”

 _“Wouldyoukissme?”_  Bitty blurts suddenly, words blending into an almost incoherent mess.

It’s a ridiculously easy question for Jack to answer.

“Of course. I think the real question is do you want a has-been as your super-special first kiss.”

“You’re not a has-been!”

Jack stands and moves to the bed, “You’re right. ‘Never-was’ seems more appropriate.”

“How can you say that?” Bitty sputters indignantly, already losing his nervous edge. “You’re —”

Jack tugs Bitty upright and presses their lips together gently, smiling when he can still feel Bitty trying to validate him before relenting and pressing back. Jack intends it to be quick, friendly, but when he moves to pull away, Bitty follows him; just enough they don’t quite lose contact.

It an action that makes Jack’s head fuzzy and his stomach flutter.

When Bitty does let him go, Jack takes in Bittle’s hooded eyes and shining lips.

“Good first kiss?”

“You taste like chicken tenders,” Bitty mumbles, cheeks going pink.

“That’s not a no.”

* * *

They have checking practice the next morning and Jack is fully expecting to gloss the events of the night before when Bitty shoves Jack into the boards and stays there, not letting Jack out of his hold and certainly not backing off.

“Bits?”

“I was thinking, maybe, since you, ah, last night,” Bitty’s cheeks are flushed with more than just exertion as he rambles. “Oh, I planned this all different.”

“Bud?” Jack pushes Bitty back gently, hoping this conversation stays positive. “You wanna talk about last night?”

Bitty halfheartedly hip checks Jack.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to kiss me,” Bitty apologizes, keeping his eyes on his skates. “That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have —”

“I wanted to do it,” Jack interrupts, tugging Bittle back into his space. “I was happy you asked me. I’d do it again, too.”

“Really? You would?”  

“I would,” Jack leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Bitty’s cheek, immediately feeling like a dumbass. “I’d even be your second kiss if you asked.”

Bitty’s quiet for a moment, inspecting Jack’s face for any sign of dishonesty before he asks, “What about a third kiss?”

Jack looks down at Bitty’s hopeful expression and blurts, “Yeah, third’s good, too. Maybe four. Fourth?”

“Would you get coffee with me?”

“Fuck yeah, bud,” Jack breathes, the situation finally catching up to him. “I mean, I’d take you to dinner. You like food.”

“I do like food,” Bitty goes pink and looks down again to hide his blush. “I like you, too.”

“Well, I’d hope so. It’s going to be no fun dating if you don’t like me.”

* * *

_Few months later…_

* * *

Jack’s fresh off a beer pong win when Bitty tugs his sleeve and brandishes his phone.

“Take a selfie?”

“Always,” Jack says, knocking his shoulder into Bitty’s and smiling for the camera, sneaking a quick peck when Bitty turns to see if he likes the picture. The ‘peck’ quickly turns into lazy kissing as they’re both a little tipsy, content to stay hidden in their little corner of the party. When Jack finally breaks away to look at the screen, he finds a perfectly timed shot of Bitty grinning widely while Jack kisses his cheek.

“You like it?” Bitty whispers against Jack’s neck, breath fruity from the tub juice. “Should I save it?”

“Send it to me,” Jack knocks his forehead against Bittle’s. “I’ll have Lards paint it on my helmet for playoffs.”

Then, abruptly, someone on the other side of the room yells, “Holy shit, is that Kent Parson?”

Jack’s pleasant buzz disappears when he looks up and finds his ex watching him and Bittle with nothing short of amusement.

Bitty backs off before Jack can stop him.

“Never thought I’d see the day —” he starts before Jack silences him with a glare.

“I want to talk to you,” Kent recovers, eyeing Bitty. “Alone. No offense to your…friend?”

“None taken,” Bitty answers, even as he looks to Jack for any hint as to what he should actually be doing.

Jack steels himself and nudges Bittle toward the kitchen, the rest of the team. “It’s okay. If I’m not down in ten come find me.”

“Aww,” Kent smiles, watching Bitty retreat through the crowd. “You found yourself a new toy. Is he good in bed?”

“Easy,” Jack groans and guides Kent upstairs toward his room. “Is that how you remember things, now? Were you the toy in that scenario?”

“We were both toys,” Kent chides when Jack lifts the caution tape cordoning off the second floor.

“And I was the one that broke,” Jack finishes, echoing their last conversation while Kent shuffles nervously, losing his cockiness the second the party is out of sight. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“I’m reminding myself,” Kent sasses once the door is locked shut behind them. “Look, I’m going to cut to the chase because ‘frat party’ isn’t a great look for me: you following any chatter? Talking to scouts? You’ve got eyes on you.”

“ _Nope_.” Jack pops the ‘p’ and watches Kent go pink.

“Are you — are you serious? Nothing? What are your plans after you graduate? Don’t you want to keep playing?”

Jack feels like he should shrug, so he does. “I was thinking about applying for a graduate program.”

“So, this whole goalie thing,” Kent pulls off his hat and shakes out his hair, reminding Jack of more than a few stressful conversations he’d rather not recall. “It isn’t just you trying to reinvent yourself?”

“Nah,” Jack thinks about Bitty, the entire team downstairs. How he’s Jack ‘Crazy Eyes’ Zimmermann instead of a ‘Hockey Robot’. “Just trying to be happy. Human.”

“Would you, though?” A furrow develops between Kent’s brow at the answer but the hope in his voice catches Jack short. “Play again? It wouldn’t take much to get the Aces to bring you on board as a third string. Maybe even second. It wouldn’t be like before, too much pressure, I can talk to —”

“I’m out,” Jack interrupts, trying his damnedest to be gentle. “My boys know. My parents know. Half the people at this school know. It wouldn’t be like before, us against the world. It can’t be. If I came to Vegas, could you handle that? People knowing about me and speculating about you?”

“That’s…not what I’m after,” Kent lies, worrying his lip before looking away, eyes shining. “And, what, this stupid team is worth more to you than me? What we were gonna be together?”

“It’s not healthy to keep longing for what could have been,” Jack counters shortly. “You’re chasing a ghost.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Kent snaps. “You were my best friend and then you were just gone —”

“I wasn’t well. The whole time we were together, I wasn’t myself. It wasn’t your fault that I had to nearly die to figure that out.”

Kent’s lips purse so tightly they practically disappear and Jack knows they’re reaching the end of this conversation.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jack repeats, “and you don’t owe me anything.”

“I miss you,” Kent forces, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “I shouldn’t, but I still fucking do.”

There’s a soft knock at the door. Bittle on his white horse.

“Sounds like your boyfriend’s here,” Kent mutters, wiping at his face. “Tell you what, when you get tired of college parties and twink coeds, give me a call. I’ll be happy to remind you what kind of life you were meant to have.”

“Get fucked, Kenny,” Jack sighs and reaches for the doorknob to usher him out. “Literally. Stop hiding. Date. Get a boyfriend. A life. I’m not worth this.”

“You act like it’s so fucking easy,” Kent snarls, shoving past Jack, and subsequently a stunned Bitty, “letting this shit go like nothing happened.”

“It’s not easy,” Jack counters, patience running thin. “It’s the opposite of easy and the reason you’re even here right now is because I couldn’t do it. Despite what you think, we never stopped being friends. Which you’d know if you stopped trying to guilt me into moving to Vegas every season.”

That seems to defuse Kent’s anger. His shoulders slump and he twists his snapback around roughly, “Whatever.”

“Take it easy, Parse,” Jack says, beckoning Bitty inside. “Good luck with playoffs. I hope you take the cup again.”

Kent disappears down the stairs and Jack knows he’s bought himself another year at least. Another year before Kent tracks him down again and tries to process a decade of hurt in twenty agonizing minutes.

“Are you okay?” Bitty rests a careful hand on Jack’s chest, the motion startling him just a bit. “That was kind of intense?”

“Yeah,” Jack wavers. He’d stayed in control long enough to think he’d made it through unscathed but it’s only when Jack rests a hand over Bitty’s that he realizes he’s shaking. With realization comes a wave of nauseous fear. 

“ _Crisse_.”

“Whoa, hon,” Bittle tries to back off but Jack holds him in place.

“Don’t, please,” Jack forces, trying to regulate his breathing without focusing on his pounding heart. “Just need to…calm down.”

Bitty tucks in close, wrapping Jack in a loose hug, asking, “How can I help?”

“Just like this,” Jack tries to focus on the weight of Bitty’s arms, his voice. “Keep talking?”

Bitty does just that. He keeps talking. Sweet nothings and platitudes that ground him enough he doesn’t need to take his medication. Bittle’s a good boyfriend.

Not that it has ever been a competition.

**Author's Note:**

> whoacanada.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Romantic Subplot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15554928) by [rewmariewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewmariewrites/pseuds/rewmariewrites)




End file.
